Fahrenheit 52

A Whole Pear

Winnie ate a whole pear. All of it, from stem to stern, seeds and all. She thought was delicious and she wanted another. Maybe two. One was better than none, and two was even more fun. She had two hands, after all.

"Why did you give her the whole thing?"

"I didn't think she was going to eat the whole thing."

"Jesus - what if she choked?"

"She didn't. She's fine."

"Uhhh, no. It's probably not good to eat that stuff in the middle."

Something was wrong. Winnie wiped her sticky hands on the white sofa and listened.

"I thought you were watching her anyways. I was downstairs flipping the laundry."

"You're not listening. What do we do about the seeds she just swallowed?"

Winnie considered this.

Was there something wrong with eating seeds? She knew that flowers and trees grew from seeds. But that was when you planted them in the ground. What about when you swallowed a seed?

Winnie imagined her fingers extending into slender tree shoots, stretching towards the sun, sprouting green leaves and teeny pear flowers. Her toes grew, too, but they dug down, deep into the dirt, sliding along rocks and through earthworm tunnels, searching for water and something to clasp onto. She hoped that she'd have the foresight -- and time -- to plant herself in a beautiful field somewhere, with an wide view of a rushing river -- or, better yet, next to a window that she could watch TV through.

"She'll probably just poop out the seeds tomorrow. But, if you'd like, I'll Google it. Okay?"

Oh, thought Winnie.

Winnie slid off the couch and trotted into the kitchen, where she opened the stainless steel fridge and snagged another pear.